


Double-0-Arthur

by PuccinisGhost



Category: Arthur (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-15 20:06:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1317601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PuccinisGhost/pseuds/PuccinisGhost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a hard drive containing the top-secret plans for a new communications satellite is stolen, the clandestine government organization E.L.W.O.O.D. (Emergency Localization Withdrawal Organization Operational Directive) mobilizes its top operatives for the retrieval mission: debonair superspy Arthur Read; deadly martial arts master Sue Ellen Armstrong; and tech wizard Alan “The Brain” Powers.  Their resolve will be tested to the limit as they uncover a plot with staggering global implications- a plot whose mastermind was once, long ago, their friend…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Betrayal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for fun, here's my love letter to James Bond and spy fiction in general. Needless to say, I do not own Arthur or any of the characters depicted in this work.

_July 14, 2031_

_10:30 P.M._

_Las Vegas, Nevada_

A summer storm- one of those known for both their brevity and their violence- had just broken out over the Entertainment Capital of the World.  In a run-down industrial district, far from the bright lights and raucous debauchery of the strip, occasional flashes of lightning illuminated a tall, thin figure wrapped in an overcoat, scurrying madly to avoid the heavy drops of rain.  The neighborhood was unfamiliar to him, and he took several wrong turns before finding his destination- an abandoned warehouse, attached to a long-defunct meat-packing plant.

His name was Dr. Octavius Dent, and twenty-four hours earlier, he had been among the finest scientific minds in the service of the United States government.  Now, he was a traitor to his country, hunted and hounded by every law enforcement agency in existence- all thanks to a black box, no larger than the average paperback book, that bounced about in the inside pocket of his overcoat as he ran.

At last he burst through the door and found himself in a great, cavernous space, with nothing to fill it save the gutted remnants of what had been a conveyor belt, and several rusting meat-hooks dangling high above, reflecting the weak light that entered through the shattered windows on either side.  He looked about, but could see no one.

A male voice came from the gloom at the far end of the warehouse, making Dent nearly jump out of his skin.  It had an odd intonation- rather like an American or Canadian attempting to feign an upper-class English accent with only mixed success.

“You’ve brought the drive, I trust, Doctor?”

“Y-yes.  It’s right here.”

“Kindly set it down on the floor, please.”

Dent obeyed, nearly dropping the hard drive as his fingers trembled with anxiety.  Something about this situation didn’t feel right.

“I was expecting you earlier,” remarked the unknown voice.

“I’m sorry- I had to make sure I wasn’t followed.  They figured out what I’d done and raised the alarm almost as soon as I was out of the facility-”

“Your theft was **discovered**?” the voice snarled.

“Look, I’m an electrical engineer, not a professional thief!  I’ve never done anything _like_ this before!  I wouldn’t have done it now, if I didn’t need the money so badly!  My wife- Sarah- her medical bills…”  Dent trailed off as he fought to choke down the sobs rising in his throat.

“Forgive me,” the unseen purchaser replied, calmer now.  “I’ve been uncouth.  You’ve done quite well, and certainly, you deserve a reward.  In a few moments, you’ll never be burdened by worries about your family again.”  There was a sharp clap of hands.  “Binkjob!” the voice called.

A massive figure stepped out of the shadows on Dent’s left.  His heavily muscled frame and the bulldog-like jowls of his face were at sharp odds with the impeccably tailored suit and black bowler hat he wore.  The sight would almost have been comical, had Dent not been terrified out of his wits.

“Ensure that our guest is…taken _care_ of, will you, Binkjob?” said the voice from the darkness, dripping with sarcasm.

“At once, sir,” the brute growled.  He raised his hands to the level of Dent’s neck, flexing his stubby, powerful fingers.

Dent shot a sidelong glance to the door- only a few meters away, yet in his present circumstances it felt like miles.  Perhaps he could make it.  He might be spindly, but he was fast on his feet- much faster, surely, than that muscle-bound monstrosity could ever be.

With a sharp intake of breath and a spring of his knees, he took off.

But it was no use, for his assumptions had been fatally mistaken.  The man called Binkjob leapt- a sight that, in the corner of Dent’s eye, seemed bizarrely similar to a ballet dancer in flight- landed on his toe, spun, and caught Dent around the midsection in a grip of iron.  Every cubic inch of air was forced from the scientist’s lungs as the brute squeezed.  He began to lose consciousness; starbursts flashed before his eyes against the backdrop of the swiftly darkening room.

“No…” he whispered feebly- more a rattle in his throat than an articulate utterance.  “Sarah…”

With a single swift motion, Binkjob hoisted Dr. Octavius Dent high in the air, raised his knee, and brought the hapless traitor down forcefully upon it.  There was a sickening crack as Dent’s backbone snapped.

“Well done,” murmured the voice from the darkness.  “Now, be a good chap and deliver that drive to our associates across the pond, would you?  I have plans for it, and there’s no time to waste- E.L.W.O.O.D. will no doubt be sending their best man after it.”

“You mean-” Binkjob gasped.  “Not _him_. Anyone but _him_.”

“Fear not, my man.  We’ll be ready for him the moment he shows his bespectacled face.  And then- that’ll be the end of Mr. Arthur Read!  Mwa ha ha!”

His chilling laughter echoed into the rainy night.

 

 


	2. Duty Calls

_July 15, 8:30 P.M. Central European Time_

_French Riviera_

“Another martini, sir?”

The tuxedo-clad gentleman to whom this question was addressed grinned from behind his horn-rimmed spectacles at the solicitous waiter.  “Not for me, thank you.  But I believe the lady at the end of the bar is in need of refreshment.”

He studied the swift little drama that was unfolding before him: the drink handed to the beautiful woman in a red cocktail dress; the waiter indicating to her its source; her expression of bemusement, quickly changing to fascination, then intrigue; her rising from her seat, heading toward him, taking care to sashay her hips from one side to the other as she walked.  So many times this scene had played out before, and yet it never lost its thrill.

The woman slid onto the seat next to him, studying him thoughtfully.  “It seems I am in your debt, Monsieur…?”

“…Read.  Arthur Read.”  He raised his glass.  “A toast, to the beauty of _la France_ \- and all who dwell therein.”

She blushed.  “ _Mais oui, m’sieur_ …”

The short summer night was just beginning, and outside the window stars were blinking into view, one after another, as the purple sky of twilight slowly faded to black.  All around the restaurant in which Arthur sat, couples were murmuring gentle words of love.  In the distance, an accordion played a slow waltz.

 _This_ , thought Arthur Timothy Read as he sipped the remnants of his drink, _is heaven on earth_.

His phone vibrated in his breast pocket, and it was all he could do to keep himself from swearing aloud.  For this was not his usual phone, the one with which he transacted daily business under his cover identity of acquisitions specialist for a reclusive collector of rare books and manuscripts.  _That_ phone could have been safely ignored.  No, this was his secure line to his true employers- and when they contacted him, it could only mean that the interests of his country, if not the world, were in mortal peril.

He rose and bowed to his conversational partner.  “Forgive me, madam.  Duty calls.”

Her face fell.  “What a cruel master you must have, to be called away on a night like this.”

“Believe me, my dear, you have _no_ idea.”

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////

The moon had risen high in the sky when Arthur Read pushed open the door of a tiny bookshop on the Rue Rambuteau, Paris.  The gentle tinkling of a bell alerted the owner to his presence.  Arthur inhaled deeply, luxuriating in the smell of the leather-bound volumes that were packed into bookcases all around him.  If there was one thing he truly regretted about his current employment, it was that it provided him with far too little time to enjoy reading.

The proprietor shuffled toward him, leaning on a cedar-wood cane, his graying beard swaying gently.  “Alas, we close soon,” he murmured in a thick Provencal accent.  “Your time to explore is short.”

Arthur recognized the challenge and immediately responded with the countersign: “A quick glance is all I need.”

The proprietor nodded curtly, and at once, his entire demeanor changed.  He let the cane drop to the floor and unbent his back, revealing a body that, for all its advanced age, was still wiry and powerful.  A fierce light entered his eyes.  “Welcome, Monsieur Read.  I’m afraid we have a grave problem that requires your talents without delay.”

Arthur sighed.  “I guessed as much.”

Working swiftly, the proprietor locked the front door and turned out the lights.  He motioned Arthur to follow him into an ill-lit back room where various folios and manuscripts were stacked haphazardly atop packing crates.

“Activate descent protocol,” the old man barked.  “Authorization Alpha- _Sept_ - _Neuf_ -Gamma.”

In reply, an audio sensor in the wall opposite blinked red twice in succession.  All around them, unseen machinery whirred into action, and the floor began slowly to descend.

Stone walls slipped past them as they sank into the earth.  Arthur bit his lip, trying to stifle his rising tide of anxiety.  What could be so urgent that E.L.W.O.O.D. would decide to forego the usual extraction protocol and instead send him directly to European central headquarters?

At last they came to a stop, and two steel doors slid open before them with a nearly inaudible whoosh.  Arthur was momentarily stunned at the sight that confronted him: a vast, cavernous space was filled with agents and technicians hurrying to and fro between banks of computers.  Floor-to-ceiling plasma screens on each wall displayed maps and surveillance footage from all the countries of the world in constant succession.  At the very center, atop a raised platform surrounded by a steel railing, E.L.W.O.O.D. European Chief of Staff Marie-Helene Beaufort surveyed the goings-on from her imposing desk.

She was a handsome woman in her early fifties who exuded an air of unquestioned authority.  Arthur had known her nearly all his life, but for many years he had believed her to be nothing more than the nanny of his sister D.W.’s friend Emily- until the day he graduated from Princeton _summa cum laude_ with a degree in international relations, and she approached him with a job offer he had never expected in a thousand years.  Only then did he discover how masterfully she had maintained a double life for decades.

“Agent Read.  _Pardonnez-moi_ for ending your _vacance_ so abruptly.  But duty calls.”

“As ever.  What’s the emergency?”

She nodded to a lab-coated technician at her side, who made a series of gestures over the surface of her desk.  A holographic display materialized in the air, showing, in cold blue outlines, what looked to Arthur like a computer’s hard drive.

“Yesterday a vital piece of technology was stolen from a secret NASA facility in the Nevada desert.  It is the key to operating a new communications satellite now under development, code name Phaethon.  The satellite is intended not only to provide us with exceptionally clear pictures of enemy activity anywhere on Earth, but also to override and disable hostile satellites already in orbit.  Warfare in space is the next frontier, Agent Read, and Phaethon would give us _un avantage formidable_.”

“Do we know who’s responsible?”

“Yes.  _Un ingenieur_ by the name of Octavius Dent.  He had been in charge of developing Phaethon’s electrical systems.”  Her expression turned grim.  “His corpse was found last night, dumped by the side of the road in a small town not far from the facility.  His back had been broken.  But the drive, alas, was no longer in his possession.”

“Hmm.  Perhaps it was forcibly taken from him by a third party- or perhaps he was hired to carry out the theft, and the delivery went awry.”

“Whatever the case may be, it is in Nevada that your investigation must begin.  You will need help, I think.  I have arranged for two other operatives to rendezvous here.  Together, I do not doubt that you will succeed.” 

“Anyone I’ve worked with before?”  Though he was loath to admit it, Arthur was uncomfortable at the thought of a team.  Over the past few years, he had grown accustomed to working alone, and even found it congenial.

“Alas, no.”  The shadow of a grin appeared on her lips.  “But even so, I think you will find that they are…not unknown to you, _n’est ce pas_?”

She motioned with her head toward the doors through which Arthur had entered, just as they slid open once more.  Two smiling figures- a man and a woman- stepped through.

Arthur’s jaw dropped.  For an instant, the suave air he had cultivated as a secret agent vanished, and he was a boy of eight once more, back home in Elwood City.

At last he found his voice again.  “Hey, Sue Ellen.  Hey, Brain.  Long time no see.”

 


	3. Rekindled

_July 16, 2031_

_1:30 P.M. Mountain Daylight Time_

They had never planned to drift apart.  Quite the contrary, in fact- when they were still carefree third-graders running amok on the streets of Elwood City, the little band of friends had been as sure as sure could be that they would be together forever.  And so they had been- until their sophomore year at Jacob Katzenellenbogen High.

There was no one catastrophic rift among them- it might have been easier if there had been.  At least in that case the pain would have been swift.  But instead, that tiresome meddler, life, slowly pried them apart and sent them down different roads.

It began with the economic crash of 2022.  In a heartbeat, Muffy Crosswire’s family went from Elwood City royalty to penniless rags.  The girl who had once relied on her butler to tie her shoelaces now had to work three jobs simply to keep afloat, and her grades suffered accordingly, until she at last dropped out and vanished from sight.  But if her star was sinking, Alan Powers’ was firmly in the ascendant: he graduated two years early and was promptly admitted to MIT, where he immersed himself in the nascent field of electronic counter-terrorism, fending off the cyberwarfare attacks that increasingly bedeviled America in those troubled days.  Francine Frensky didn’t even bother with college- why should she, when the Elwood City Warriors offered her a multimillion-dollar contract to play her first love, soccer?

Would that Binky Barnes had been so lucky.  He was on the cusp of a successful career with the Bolshoi Ballet when a torn ACL brought his dream crashing down.  Thanks to advances in surgical techniques, his physical recovery was swift- but emotionally, he was never the same.  His gentleness vanished behind a mask of anger; he lashed out time and time again, even at those who cared about him, until the only people he could still call friends were his bail bondsman and his parole officer.  Arthur had no idea what had finally become of him.

By high school graduation, only Sue Ellen and Buster remained at Arthur’s side, and even that didn’t last long.   Arthur had begun to develop feelings for the gentle girl with a passion for social justice, and it stung him bitterly when she announced that, rather than making the jump straight to college, she was going to take a year off to “find herself”.  He had no doubt that she would be happy with the Peace Corps in Nepal, but as much as he tried to tell himself that there would be other fish in the sea, a part of him still feared that no one would ever measure up to her.

Then there was Buster- Arthur’s oldest and closest friend.  To this day Arthur couldn’t think of him without a tear welling up in the corner of his eye.  _I should have done something! I could have saved him! It’s **my fault!**_ A voice deep inside him cried.  It was nonsense, of course.  No one could have turned Buster away from his self-destructive path.  Arthur and Sue Ellen had even staged an intervention, to no avail- for Buster, drugs were the only refuge from the paranoia that was slowly consuming his mind and soul, and he would never let them go, even as they ravaged his body.

In his wallet Arthur kept a single newspaper clipping- the brief paragraph from the _Elwood City Times_ that announced the discovery of an overturned, burnt-out Volkswagen Beetle ten miles outside of town, and inside it, the charred body of Buster Baxter, identifiable only by dental records.  That was the day Bitzi had quit her position as editor-in-chief, never to open a newspaper again.  Her own death had followed swiftly upon her son’s; the official cause was a cerebral hemorrhage, but everyone knew the truth: she had simply lost the will to live without her beloved Buster.

And so the fellowship was sundered.  Since then, Arthur had carved out a life for himself- a good life, without a doubt.  He traveled to exotic locales, romanced beautiful women, and had already saved the world on more than one occasion.    Yet he still felt an emptiness within whenever he reflected on the lost friends of his childhood.  Now, at last, that void was beginning to be filled.

“You know, no one’s called me ‘Brain’ since I was twelve years old,” said Alan Powers with a broad-toothed grin, as the three of them sat in a tiny motel room off Interstate 80, just outside Conklin, Nevada (population 1,035). “We gotta get you out of that habit, Arthur.”

“Sorry, Br…Alan.  It’s just, seeing you again…”

“I understand.”  The passage into adulthood had been kind to Alan; he was tall and broad-shouldered, with a round, welcoming face.  Yet, Arthur noticed with an inward chuckle, he still favored the same drab sweaters, slacks, and loafers that had been his standard uniform as a child.  _I’ll have to take him shopping in Milan once this is over.  A bit of a fashion makeover and the ladies will be swooning over him._

Sue Ellen was only half-listening to their conversation.  Her eyes flicked about- up, down, side to side- with the precise movement of security cameras.  After a moment, she allowed herself to turn to her two friends.  “Don’t feel bad, Arthur.  I’m still tempted to call him ‘Brain’ myself, sometimes.”

“What were you doing just now?” Arthur asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

She answered as nonchalantly as if reciting a grocery list, “Security sweep.  There are 32 possible angles of attack on this room, and 15 effective lines of defense- 8 lethal, 7 non-lethal.”

It took her a moment to realize that Arthur was staring at her with his jaw agape.  “Sorry,” she said. “It’s instinct.  After my training with Master Jampa, I see everything in strategic terms.  It’s saved my skin more than once, to tell you the truth.”

“Jampa?  That’s a Tibetan name, isn’t it?”

Sue Ellen grinned.  “You know your stuff, Arthur.  After Maoist rebels made Nepal too hot to handle, I slipped into Tibet and wound up at a secluded Buddhist monastery.  Spent six years studying white crane style combat, the use of bladed weapons, stealth infiltration.  You know, the usual.”

Arthur shook his head, chuckling.  “You never cease to amaze me.  No wonder E.L.W.O.O.D. wanted you.”

But even as he spoke, a troubling question lingered at the back of his mind: why had no one ever told him that Sue Ellen was employed by the agency?  Surely Marie-Helene, at the least, would have known of their old friendship.  Was it that Arthur’s employers feared he would lose his objectivity if he were paired with someone that he knew- someone that he cared about?  If so, why assign them both to a mission now?  It made no sense.

Well, no point in worrying himself unnecessarily.  He had confidence in his ability to remain cool-headed and professional.  Besides, any romantic interest he might have had in Sue Ellen was long in the past…wasn’t it?

So he tried to tell himself, but as he gazed upon her lithe, sinewy form clad in a flower-print blouse and capri pants, he felt old sensations welling up in his heart once more.  She was short- a full head shorter than he- but perfectly proportioned, with an easy grace and self-possession in her movements that reminded him of a cat.

_Focus, Arthur.  Remember the job at hand.  You can’t lose sight of your goal…you can’t allow yourself to start falling in…_

“A- _HEM_.” Alan’s throat-clearing was just a bit louder than it needed to be, and it snapped Arthur out of his momentary reverie.  “Before you two head off to examine the body, I have a few items that might be of interest to you.”  The tech genius deftly flicked a series of concealed switches around the rim of his suitcase, revealing a concealed compartment impervious to any known methods of scanning.

Arthur was used to receiving improbable gadgetry of all sorts- it was part of the espionage game, after all- but even so, he couldn’t hide his momentary surprise when Alan pressed a thick hardcover book into his hands.  His eyes widened further as he read the title: _Towards a Gendered Neo-Deconstructivist Reading of “At the Mountains of Madness”_ , by Prof. Fern Walters.

“I thought Fern’s dream was to write _fiction_ ,” he remarked.

“Oh, she does.  She just uses her old _nom de plume_ of Agatha Shelley, so that her colleagues in academia won’t know she’s cranking out trashy airport thrillers on the side…DON’T OPEN IT!” Alan suddenly shouted, freezing Arthur in place.

“Good Lord, what was _that_ for?”

“Sorry to be so abrupt, but the moment you open that book, you’ll trigger an EMP powerful enough to knock out everything electrical within a five hundred meter-radius.”

“…Ah.  Good to know,” said Arthur, setting down the book on the bed as carefully as if it were a bottle of nitroglycerin.

“And for you, Sue Ellen.”  Alan slipped a golden bracelet that resembled entwined snakes onto the female spy’s wrist.

“It’s lovely.  Reminds me of something the ancient Egyptians would have worn.”

“More than just lovely.  Flick your wrist clockwise, twice in quick succession.”

She obeyed.  Instantly her fist was surrounded by a translucent bubble of force that emanated from the mouths of the golden snakes.

“Brass knuckles for the digital age.  That forcefield gives you enough punching power to knock a steel blast door off its hinges.  But use it sparingly- the power cell gets drained quickly.”

“It’s official, Alan.  You’re amazing.”   Sue Ellen’s words- and her beaming smile- aroused a momentary flicker of jealousy in Arthur.  He quickly stepped between the two of them.  “I think we’d best get going, don’t you agree, Sue Ellen?  The coroner has promised us a look at Dent’s body.”

“Of course.”  As she placed her hand on the doorknob, her face suddenly darkened.  She looked back toward the window and out, toward a distant grassy knoll on the other side of the interstate.

“What’s the matter?” Arthur asked.

“…Nothing.  I thought I sensed…oh, it’s not important.  Just my mind playing tricks.  But…Alan?  While we’re gone…stay away from the window, would you?”

The young scientist cocked his head quizzically.  “Okay.  Whatever you say.”

Once Arthur and Sue Ellen had departed, Alan went to shut the window and draw the curtains.  It wasn’t something he was keen on doing- with no air conditioning and a temperature in the triple digits, the room would soon become stifling- but he knew well that Sue Ellen’s instincts were to be trusted, however little justification they might appear to have.

In the distant grassy knoll, a man in camouflage and facepaint crouched on his belly, taking careful aim with his AS-50 sniper rifle.  A laser sight, invisible to the naked eye, settled upon the head of Alan Powers, just above the right temple.

His finger tightened on the trigger. 


	4. Confrontation

Frederick Culp had killed many people in his time.  First it had been in the service of his country, as part of the Australian Special Operations Command.  Then, when he realized a government paycheck would never cover his mounting gambling debts, he became a freelancer, pulling the trigger for anyone who could meet his price.  Little by little, the moral standards by which he had once lived had slipped away.  He no longer cared who was in his sights- men, women, even children.  He knew he had become a monster, and sometimes, when he was deep in sleep, the faces of his victims would appear to him, whispering things no man should ever hear.  But the moment he awoke, he willed himself to forget them, sometimes with the aid of a bottle of whisky he kept by his bedside.  It was the only way he could go on functioning in the life he had chosen, for it was far, far too late to turn back.

At the moment, his thoughts were not on the poor sod in the hotel room opposite whose brains he was about to splatter all over the walls, but rather on his employer.  The boss was utterly mad- no one who had spoken to him personally could have any doubt of that.  Keeping tabs on his operatives every minute of every day?  Demanding that they allow him to implant a radio transmitter in their _skulls_?  Normally Culp would never have entered the service of such a man, but the exorbitant salary he had offered was too tempting to resist.

_Time to earn your pay, Freddy boy._   The present target- Powers, his name was, if Culp’s memory served him- clearly had no idea that his life was about to be snuffed out.  Culp could almost have felt sorry for him- if he had been able to feel anything at all.

He squeezed the trigger.

At the same instant, a sandal-clad foot struck his hands.  The rifle barrel jerked to one side as it flew out of Culp’s fingers; the shot went wide of its mark, the bullet embedding itself in a nearby telephone pole.

The assassin rolled onto his back and leapt to his feet, furious.

Confronting him was a beautiful, tiny young woman with a gentle smile on her face.  He was momentarily taken aback- this wasn’t quite what he had expected to see.

“Who the hell d’you think you are?” he snarled.

She giggled and spoke in a high-pitched, girlish voice.  “Hey, I recognize that accent- you’re Australian!  I _love_ your country!  Ayers Rock is _so beautiful_!  And those Aboriginal rock drawings…they’re just _amazing_!”

Was it an act?  It didn’t _seem_ that way.  As far as Culp could tell- and he was usually fairly skilled at reading people- her childlike enthusiasm was genuine.  It was almost impossible to believe that this silly little slip of a thing posed any real threat. For a brief instant, without realizing what he was doing, he relaxed his guard.

That brief instant was enough.  In one smooth motion, the woman pressed the fingers of her right hand together, forming something that looked like a crane’s beak, then drove them straight into Culp’s left eye.  As he cried out in pain, half-blinded, the woman spun gracefully in a half-turn and drove her elbow into his chin, stunning him, then brought up her other arm and drove her fist with surgical precision into his throat.

The entire maneuver had taken less than a second, and the broad grin had never left her face.  Culp was in agony, barely able to breathe, but still his military instincts remained with him; he brought up his fists and took up an approximation of a fighting stance.

It did him no good.  Already the girl had dropped low and was bringing her leg around in a broad sweep.  His unsteady legs were knocked out from under him, sending him crashing to the hard earth.

“Now, then,” the woman said in a disturbingly cheerful tone, “before you lose consciousness, why don’t you tell me who hired you?”

_What the hell -might as well talk.  I’m done for anyway._   “His…his name is…”

Ten thousand volts of electricity shot through Frederick Culp’s skull, and, in the split second before he died, he realized just _why_ his employer had insisted on fitting him with that cranial implant.

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Sue Ellen bent over the assassin’s lifeless body, swearing in a very un-ladylike fashion under her breath.  _So much for our best lead._

Then again, there was much to be thankful for.  If she hadn’t trusted her instincts and sent Arthur on ahead while she went to check out that grassy copse, Brain…er, _Alan_ would be dead now.

He was running across the road toward her now, breathless.  “I heard the shot!  What happened?”

“We had a party crasher.  Are you okay?”

“Fine.  Was he…was he trying to kill _me_?”

Sue Ellen pitied her friend, seeing his shaking hands and the sweat on his brow.  For a moment she considered hiding the truth, but what good would it do?  If Alan was going to be out in the field and not sitting at a computer terminal in E.L.W.O.O.D. HQ, it was best that he come to grips with the dangers of field work as soon as possible.  His survival might well depend on it.

“Yeah, he was.”

“Oh, geez.  I, um, need to sit down.”

She went to where he had plopped down in the grass and gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze.  “No worries, buddy.  I’ve got your back.”

“Thanks,” he replied with a weak attempt at a smile.  “But…what about Arthur?”

“He’s gone to the coroner’s office.  He’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?  Obviously someone knows we’re here.”

“Good point.”  She chewed her lip thoughtfully, trying to ignore the increasing unease in the pit of her stomach.  “I’d better head over that way myself…but I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“I’ll be fine.  Besides, I can do more good here.  Maybe I can find out what this guy has to say.”

Sue Ellen cocked a quizzical eyebrow.  “I don’t think he’s saying much anymore.”

For a moment, the cloud of anxiety that had been hanging over Alan seemed to part.  He grinned at Sue Ellen, and she saw in his eyes a flash of the cocky, brash genius she had known in childhood.  “Even dead men can tell stories.  You just have to know a few tricks.”

She gave him an encouraging pat on the back.  “Okay, then.  You work your scientific mojo, and I’ll go lend Arthur a hand.  Call me if you find out anything.”

As she slipped into the driver’s seat of her Lotus Esprit and buckled her seatbelt, she looked back over her shoulder to see Alan studying the assassin’s clothes, high-tech magnifying glass in hand.  He was clearly in his element.  Perhaps this little incident wouldn’t turn out to be a dead end after all.

But even so, she couldn’t rejoice.  Not with the knowledge that their mission might have been compromised.

_Please, Arthur_ , she whispered as her foot pressed down the accelerator.  _Please don’t be walking into a trap_.


End file.
